Love Makes Us Monsters

London, England Early 1800's People are highly opinionated on how a lady should be. In other words, there are many things a lady can do that are presumptuous, distasteful, and improper. This is, after all, the 19th century. In London, England, nonetheless. Prestige and etiquette are near top priority in this place. It is, however, completely normal. All the rules. All the opinions. The pompous attitudes. From men, of course. No lady should ever talk as is she is better than anyone. I have one word for all that nonsense. Poppycock. One Ah, A Spirit “I am late, so very late!” I could not get ready quick enough. I threw my dark wavy hair up in a messy bun. Did I miss a strand? Oh well! That did not matter at the moment. I did not have time to pin up any stray hairs. With fumbling hands, I finished buttoning the blouse-like top of my dress. The cream white of the fabric brought out the faint rose tone of my pale skin; making me seem lively rather than sickly. The ruffle of the high neck collar tickled just below my jaw. Snatching my boots from the rack in the greeting hall closet, I slipped them on, trying to keep my balance as I did so. I was rather uncoordinated for a lady. Balancing without tipping over was a small accomplishment for myself. Hurrying onto the street, I could not see the carriage. Damn! I suppose I would have to walk. I began to run down the busy street. As I ran past groups of people, their eyes widening at me, one of Father’s rules came to mind. Rule twenty-eight. A lady should avoid running in or across streets. Such behavior is inelegant and dangerous. I ran faster. I placed my focus on the sound of my footfalls echoing on the cobblestone street. Finally, I arrived at the news building. It was a large three-story establishment with many windows. The original owners of the building had it as their family home. Until they lost all their finances and the bank took the house. It was then bought by a local paper and turned into their business headquarters. A remodel made the rooms perfect for office spaces for their handful of employees. The paper itself was one of the most highly regarded newspapers that was sold in London. The Gallant was the first to report on crimes, murder trials, domestic scandals, as well as any other tragedies within the city. Believe me. Many things could happen in London. At any time of the day. After entering the establishment, I bustled upstairs to the second floor, past the gentlemen strewn along the balcony walkways. My little closet of an office in sight. A tall, sharp gentleman made a point to block my path. “Ms. Webster, arriving late again are we?” “It will not happen again, sir.” I bit the inside of my lip. Excuses with the boss were futile. He cared not for excuses, but rather results. If you were late, he would scorn you with his stare. Then, comment on your being tardy. Followed by telling you, each time, to not let it happen again. This was my fourth time in the year that I was receiving the boss, Mr. Hail’s, scornful stare. How a stare like that could get more terrifying, I did not know. Yet, each time, it did. Mr. Hail was an older gentleman. About Father’s age. His graying sideburns showing his age more. His voice had a wheeze to it. “Do not let it happen again, Ms. Webster, or there will be consequences.” “Yes, Mr. Hail,” I said with a grin. I saw a pale pink color his cheeks. As scary as he could be, he was never able to hide how a woman’s smile threw off his brute act; as were most of the men in this day and age. I scurried past him and entered my office. It was a small room. Two large windows facing out to the street. The walls were a faded white that was yellowing. The floor dark pine wood planks. In the office, only a handful of furniture sat. Next to the door was a wooden waiting bench I had requested to be painted white. At the opposite end of the room sat my desk, which was made of a deep mahogany with matching chair. Nothing else. Not even drapes for the windows. I was always a simple person, my mother used to tell me, never needing more than the basic things. Taking a deep breath, I went to sit at my desk. I grabbed a leaf of paper thinking on what my next article for The Gallant should be. “Think too hard and those gears may start smoking, Miss Charlotte.” I turned my attention from the paper to the gentleman standing in the office doorway. His sandy blonde hair was slicked back and covered by a brown bowler hat. He was a hair taller than I, with a regal air to him. He wore neutral colors; tan trousers, cream button-up shirt accented with brown suspenders and a tan bowtie. The outfit was topped off with a brown pleated jacket that matched his hat. “Nathaniel.” I could not help but smile. “What are you doing here? Father was expecting you later in the week.” I stood from my desk and walked over to him. “Oh, please do have a seat,” I requested as I gestured to the bench. He shook his head as he responded. “I am alright but thank you. But, yes. I arrived earlier than I intended, so I thought that I might come to see you in action at your prestigious line of work.” “I know you are poking fun at me,” I said to him with squinted eyes and a pout. He smirked as I pointed a finger at his chest. “I have been caught!” Nathaniel said, playfully dramatic as he placed a hand against his chest, pretending to be wounded. Then he stood straight once more with an endearing grin. “My dear Charlotte, as sharp as ever, I see. Is that why you chose to work writing for the paper?” He took his hat off and fidgeted with it in his hands. There was something else on his mind, I could tell from his squirming. I answered with an easy tone, hoping to distract him from his nervousness. “I have always been nosey and opinionated. As you well know. I enjoy being able to write and publish my opinions for all of London to read. Well, that is when I am allowed to by the boss. It has been a fight with him since starting here to write what I wish.” “You have not changed a bit then. Though, I did notice that you are writing for the advice column? I feel you would be more for the adventures and crimes than how pretty a curtain would be in pink rather than purple.” He paused as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. “Well, I shan’t keep you from work.” He grabbed one of my hands and gave a light, gentle squeeze. “I shall see you later this evening. Good day, my dear Charlotte.” Quickly, Nathaniel turned to take his leave. I could not help but smile again as I watched after him, his figure descending the stairs and out of my sight. Nathaniel and I had grown up since a young age as friends. Our fathers would often visit each other and speak of politics. Once Nathaniel had become of age, he, too, joined our fathers and listened to their debates. His father had high expectations for him, and Nathaniel met each one with a fierce determination. He was a highly intelligent man, handsome, and had a unique sense of humor. It had been three years since I had last seen him. “Ms. Webster!” a yell from down the hall echoed. Mr. Hail again. “My office!” Dreadfully, I trudged down the balcony walkway to get my weekly earful. ∞ “This article is not even remotely close to what you were requested to write. I stuck you to the advice column. Not invasive investigations. This piece here,” he waved it angrily, “is on a slew of recent fires.” “Mr. Hail, if I may-” “You are a woman. You are expected to write about the feminine needs of our inquirers and give those ladies advice on the situations they ask about.” “I was meant for more than telling a woman why rose pink is better than blush pink.” “You were hired here to write in the advice column.” “If I could have a chance to prove to you, sir, that I am a much better journalist than half of the men-” “Men, Ms. Webster. You are the only female journalist that I have here. My men have not even a clue how to answer those silly letters and questions. That is why when your father came to me and asked me to hire you, I agreed.” “Can I at least make some agreement where I can write more than responses to these ‘silly’ letters, as you put it?” Mr. Hail was silent for a moment, contemplating. “What is your proposal?” he asked. “I will write all the responses and advice you throw my way. If I can cover at least one piece of actual events…Every other week.” He was silent again. His stare seemed to try and challenge mine. I held his gaze adamantly. “Fine.” I smiled excitedly at his reply. “You can cover one news story every other week. But. The moment I hear a complaint, or you miss a deadline, it is strictly the advice column for you.” “Thank you so much for the opportunity, Mr. Hail! I will not let you down!” I yelled as I ran enthusiastically back down the hall to my office. I was excited to see what stories I could find to write about. “And no more being late, Ms. Webster!” the boss’ voice echoed after me. ∞ I sat at my desk, pen in hand as the ink put my thoughts onto the paper. I wrote more on the seemingly accidental fires. Policemen had investigated yet could only assume there were candles left unattended. Maybe pets got too carried away or frightened in the night and knocked the candlestick over, causing the start of the fire. Maybe an oil lamp had fallen, spilled over the floor, and combusted. At each home, though, that had been stricken by flames, I noticed a boy looking at the houses. He stared at them as if entranced and excited by the prospect of the tragedies. He would be the last to leave, like an artist admiring his work on display. A boy? Could he be the cause of all these bizarre burnings? Mindlessly I write thought to page. Out of the corner of my eye, a movement caught my attention. I glanced up in the direction of the movement. A woman sat on the bench by the office door. Her skin was dark, a creamy brown. Her hair a faded black pulled into a small tight bun. Her face has sharp features, dark pools for eyes. The dress she wears is a similar style to my own only hers is a navy blue, light blue vertical lines accent it. Her expression is soft, but she says nothing. Her eyes bore into me. “Oh!” I said with a startled tone. “Good day, madam.” I stood from my chair and walked to the side of my desk. The woman kept her dark eyes on me, watching me as I moved, her hands clasped together on her lap. Her mouth started to move as if she was trying to speak. Yet I could not hear a word. “I apologize, I did not catch that. Is there anything I can assist you with?” I asked as I inched slowly past my desk. As I reached the corner of it, the woman disappeared. She did not stand and walk away; simply vanished into thin air. The place that she had sat felt more vacant than before she appeared. I blinked in momentary confusion. Then, the realization hit me. “Ah, a spirit,” I said to myself with a sad grin. Outside the window I heard an uproar of people. A woman’s scream. More screams followed. I walked over to the window to look out and see what the commotion was about. On the street below, a crowd of people were headed up the street. Policemen weaved their way through and past people as fast as they possibly could. All were headed toward the direction the screams had come from. Where others would see chaos, I saw opportunity. Quickly, I grabbed my notepad and lead pencil before running out of my office to join the clamor and confusion in the streets.